


The Broken Yolk Satisfies No Hunger

by momomasoch



Category: Original Work, 킬링 스토킹 | Killing Stalking (Webcomic)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: A new omega has to accept his alpha's dark hobbies.
Relationships: Oh Sangwoo/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 24





	The Broken Yolk Satisfies No Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of an exploration of my original character, Fontaine, and peripherally, his relationship with Sangwoo; rather than a piece set primarily in the Killing Stalking canon.

There is a millipede beneath his shoe: half-trampled, one part jewelic shell and furred feelers and scuttling and scrabbling thousand legs, one part dust and smear against the handsome sole of his licorice-dark half-heel. Fontaine takes another glimpse at the insect, watching it raise and lower its head, and scrapes it against the concrete front entrance, where the once-plush hydrangea bunches—the ones he had so devotedly planted with his own hands—are sunken in their dry beds, neglected, their hues of strawberry and marionberry withered, wilted. He knocks at the door, and when he is let in, he drags his dirtied shoe against the rug, deliberate. 

Little legs, struggling no more: it reminds him of the first movement of a baby, or rather, the sticky forming fetus, growing from the eggs inside of him, unfortunate enough to have been fertilized by some dumb alpha, who had probably forgotten the condom, those foul-odorous pockets of rubber in hues of powder-pink and soapy-yellows and mint-pastels. And as an omega, Fontaine suffers for it: the vomiting, the weakness of his bladder, the weight in his womb, a dozen bite marks from various mates scarred against his throat. He is not unfaithful to any of them: when he is in heat—and even when he isn’t—he cannot be held responsible for his sex’s weakness.

Summer comes languidly, the morning sun sitting fatly from the window-pane, as if a raw egg yolk forgotten in a bowl, swollen and stinking, unappetizing. _Yukhoe_ , Sangwoo calls one such dish, but Fontaine declares it disgusting. He eats nothing raw—well, almost; semen is the same as milt. Summer is the worst season, because it is palpable with arousal: sweat-glimmering bodies, pungent and ripe, clothes sticking to skin, peeling off in a warm puff of steam, and with it, comes the necessity to purge the excess of sloughing scabs and dirt and broken bugs caught between one’s toes. Bathing is essential; but it is, to him, no relief to settle into shallow ponds of cold baths, to shudder beneath the pelting of droplets, to frolic in the spitting of lawn-sprinklers. No, he settles for sponges, with bottles of perfume and sticks of powdery deodorant.

He pulls the paper laundry tag of his shirt, out from under his collar, tongue protruding. Opening drawers, already rummaging for a pair of scissors to snip it off with: familiar enough to have visited before, but not to remember where things are kept. Would his host care if his cutlery were out of place? He calls for help, absently: “Baby—” He stops: there is a box of arsenic tucked into one cabinet: a neon box illustrated with a rat, by the packets of soup powder and dried mushrooms and fragments of noodles. Morbid imagination goes to wire hangers, curled into hooks. 

Turning back from the depths of the storage, the small boy, for the first time, greets the other male with a hug: fingers nipping at cloth and flesh. Sangwoo is taller and older and bigger: it is a challenge for their bodies to fit together, Fontaine straining upwards to embrace him. For lovers, neither of them are particularly fond of all of the affection. Sangwoo doesn’t return the gesture—the dye in his hair is getting rather old, earth-hued roots growing in to replace the golden fringe; he smells like butcher-wrapped meat, underneath the cologne. It excites Fontaine, just a bit.

It has been three months, and he is just beginning to show: a little protrusion of the stomach, a lump he could dismiss from a hearty breakfast. But something has to be done about it. “Baby—” He cajoles, with his spittle-lacquered lips quivering centimeters from a dispassionate mouth. “Would you want a family with me?” The pudge of his abdomen presses against the bony crevices of Sangwoo’s hips. “Because we ought to; we could; we should. If you remember, when we made a little love together? Well—”

Well, Fontaine does not tell the entire truth. His other lovers: four more alphas, are wiped from the chalky blackboard of his storying. He does not mention the sugar pills he has been swallowing, rather than proper birth control. He forgets the sewing needle, poking miniature holes in the bulbous heads of each condom. Hiding the love-bruises and bites from previous and parallel affairs. Fontaine speaks in languages of romance, and begs Sangwoo to believe it.

Something downstairs reeks foul, leftovers from the broken refrigerator, perhaps: laminate matching cracked egg-shells peeling from the massive frame, stained with clot-colored puddles, wet and leaking. Of month-old pot roasts, or slender slices of delicatessen meats, or something fresh which was never cooked. In their early days, Fontaine demanded to hear if Sangwoo had other omegas, as sometimes does occur. A string of mild girls, was the reply, but not a boy, not before him. They are going to stay together; and their little family—infant and all, until he can find a doctor—should have Sangwoo first.

There is a clump of something, between the floorboards: perhaps, seaweed and sesame seeds for seasoning, a dark and wiry nest of ocean filaments. Fontaine sniffles, and with his heel, pushes the knot of human hair further down, into the wood.


End file.
